How Dieting Like a Victoria's Secret Angel Led Me to Binge

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Over the course of a month, ELLE editor Justine Harman learns that being professional-grade skinny is harder than it looks—way harder. Yesterday, Harman recounted her tough love consultation with Dr. Passler, nutritionist to the Victoria's Secret angels.

After our first consultation, Dr. Passler carved out a very strict and limited diet for me. "You're petite," he explained, "which means you don't need all that much food." Huh. According to my new diet, breakfast consisted of a shake or nutritional bar, while lunch and dinner were steamed or raw vegetables. He emailed me a list of the greens that were permitted—artichokes, asparagus, broccoli, and kale among them, which I was permitted to season with olive oil, spices, and sea salt. I was also instructed to eat every two to three hours, and to make sure I drank at least two quarts of water daily. On top of the food and shakes, he doled out a series of supplements to fine tune my gastrointestinal activity, promote proper muscle function, and angel-ify my hair, nails, and skin. On the way to my office, I nibbled on my first of what would become my diet staple: half of an easily digestible, extra chewy rice bar in vanilla almond flavor.

The idea of eating a thumb-length block of nutrition several times of day might sound unappealing to some, but I relished the fact that I didn't have to think about my snacks. (I will never, ever understand how many almonds is too many almonds.) I even liked the way the slightly gelatinous bars coated my throat on the way down. And they seemed to be working: After a week of knocking back chocolate-orange flavored shakes the consistency of day-old plaster, a dozen or so toffee-thick nutrition bars, and nightly dinners of waterlogged veggies, according to Dr. P's charts and graphs, I had shed several pounds of fat and was in much better all-over health.

It may have been placebo effect, but I actually felt prettier. Like somehow, in a matter of days, I had excavated slumbering cheekbones and amped up the brightness setting behind my eyes. I also felt a creeping sense of superiority when my colleagues sought out a late-afternoon sugar boost. Cupcakes are for the weak, I'd chant happily under my breath while mixing up another batch of glorified Soylent.

I cheated, too, of course, but even after a night of flip cup and Fireball shots, I felt like I had better overall mental acuity. For the first time since college, I didn't have a hangover accompanied by soul-crushing anxiety the next morning. It was like I had unlocked my inner Kelly Ripa! And then, I hit a wall. As the novelty of making shakes in a plastic canteen thrice daily wore off—a stainless steel blender ball barely separated the particles of a gastro supplement from the flavored powder—so did my attention to detail. I started crushing full-size bars in a single snack and adding almond milk to the shakes.

And then I binged. It started off with a few beers, which graduated to tequila shots. In an effort to stave off an impending blackout, I ransacked a stash of bars I'd put in my purse to tide me over for the weekend. I ate all three. And a packet of almond butter, a bag of Goldfish, and a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich—the leftovers from my former life as a partially discerning, bandwagon-hopping, girly girl. It may not seem like a lot, but with the drinks included, I had managed to ingest over 2,000 calories of bullshit in a matter of hours. When I woke up in the morning I felt a dread I'd liken to waking up before a history exam and having studied the wrong chapter. Only I felt fat.